Auld Lang Syne
by TheOneAndOnly1993
Summary: It's been years since Imperial loyalist Aywen, an Bosmer born and raised in Cyrodiil, discovered that she was the Dragonborn and saved the world from Alduin's tyranny. Aywen did a lot of bad things during that time. Horrible things. She would just like to forget; live a nice quiet life in Falkreath with her housecarl, Lydia. But it's just not that easy, and it's tearing her apart.


**_Auld Lang Syne_**

**_by TheOneAndOnly1993_**

* * *

I don't know where I am. Everything is dark. I cast an orb of light, a sentry of sight, to hover above my shoulder. All's it seems to do is make the darkness even dark, and my shadow to grow much, much larger.

_"Die, Bosmer scum!" _Nordic bandits scream in my ear.

I panic: without my dagger, I make a sudden dash into the wretched abyss ahead, not knowing where it would lead, assuming it even had an end. All's I did, all I could do, was make a determined dash away from the jeers and cries of cutthroats and rapists, all of whom were accompanied by the ceaseless choir of unsheathing swords that made their numbers seemingly in the thousands. I don't know how long or how far I ran, but it wasn't long before my feet felt weighted down, soaked in an unseen liquid as the earth beneath my feet transformed into what I could only guess was water.

I slowed to a stop, and upon closer inspection it was revealed that I was standing ankle-deep in blood. That's when the darkness around me lightened up, just enough for my enduring sprite to light an appropriate space around me. Oh, how I wish it didn't! Joining me in the lake of scarlet were the corpses of Stormcloak soldiers, all of whom had slashes across their throats or a decent-sized slit in their spine.

_"Well done..." _whispered a figure to my right, sounding genuinely impressed despite her choking on the second airway I carved into her throat. Around her were the bodies of a Redguard, an elderly mage, an Argonian, Dunmer, a little girl, a grisly barbarian of a man, and a frostbite spider, all of whom were wearing red and black robes or leather.

I instantly recognized it as my handiwork, which was something I wished not to believe. So I did the only thing I could do:

I ran.

It took some tricky maneuvering for me not to trip over the dense sea of corpses, but not once did I stop for a moment of respite. Only when my sprite dimmed and was finally extinguished did I stop to cast another. Once more, it lit the sea of blood, the area around me twinkling like rubies and diamonds.

_"Let the Dragonborn be the one to do it; it'll make for a better song," _a thick Nordic drawl echoed behind me.

I reared my head and found that the corpses were cleared, only to make way for the most prominent figures to die by my hands: Ulfric Stormcloak, knelt down in the blood so lowly that his bristly chin almost submerged. He looked up to me with those cold, Nordic eyes of his that he gave me on the day the Empire reclaimed Windhelm; the eyes that spoke volumes without showing a hint of emotion, aside from hints of regret tweaked with restrained rage.

By instinct, I lifted my hand, suddenly clutched around the hilt of some dagger, and I swiped at the Jarl's throat. He collapsed into the lake, gurgling and spitting like a gutted fish. My knees shook as I lifted the red and silver blade up to eye-level, realizing it to be the infamous blade of Lord Mehrunes Dagon.

_"You get a generous amount of gold, I get to complete my collection, and nobody has to die."_

I lashed out to the left, the echo's source, without hesitation. My blade, Dagon's claw, made an effortless carve through the jugular vein of Silus Vesuius. He gargled on his own life force for a spell before collapsing into the lake; my face was covered in liquid and warmth and my mouth tastes of copper as he did so.

Just then, a horrible roar trembled the abyss around me:_ "Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!" _

The World Eater himself, screaming his last words in Dragon tongue as swears of immortality. Like all foes who are stronger than me, I turned heel and ran. The bloodied ocean disappeared in an instant, becoming land once more. Though I was relieved, it was short lived until I came upon another blockade: the corpse of Aranea Ienith, a priestess of Azura I was once humbled to call my friend, laid as another victim of my lust for power before the shrine of Boethiah.

_"Tell me,"_ she asked,_ "why have you slain this one, who trusted you, here upon my shrine?"_

Because I was scared of Alduin. Because I was angry at the Empire. Because I wanted protection through power, not through something as volatile and unreliable as alliances or friendship. The aftermath of my actions never weighed upon my mind until after the fact, which is something that has certainly happened more than once...

_"You're here because we're abominations in your mind." _As if on cue, that stating of the fact by Lord Harkon's estranged wife, Valerica, echoed throughout the wretched abyss as the bloody basin spat up from the shadows beneath my feet. "_Evil creatures that need to be destroyed."_

All around me the desecrated corpses of people who were foolish enough to challenge me, Draugr protecting their sacred crypts from defilers like I, or simply the wild beasts defending the territory rose from the bottom of the dead sea. Mehrunes' wretched razor slipped from my grasp and fell with a thick _'sploosh.' _

"NO!" I screamed, veering away from the mass grave before me. What a mistake I made!

Turning around brought me no solitude, only the pain of being face to face with the animated corpse of a dragon's skeleton. They all looked the same to me, dragons did. But this one, for whatever reason, I was able to recognize instantly.

_"What is better,"_ the skeleton asked, his bony jaw clapping thunderously with every syllable,_ "to be born good, or to overcome your evil through great effort?"_

I dropped to my knees, uncaring that the blood would surely ruin my fine clothes. "I don't know, Paarthurnax." My voice barely rose above a whimper. "I really... don't know."


End file.
